


take care

by Prim_the_Amazing



Series: DRIVEN MAD BY LUST [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Werewolves in Heat, incredibly contrived absurd scenario to get two characters to fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 17:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Locus wakes up to the taste of another person’s blood in his mouth and says, “Fuck.”





	take care

Locus wakes up to the taste of another person’s blood in his mouth and says, _ “Fuck.”  _

He sits up and looks around himself. He is indeed in the wilderness, and not the basement of his remote cabin that he’d locked himself in for the full moon. Either his wolf form has finally figured out how to use keys, or he managed to scrape and bite up a big enough hole in a wall to squeeze through. Judging from the splinters on his back, it’s the latter. Shit. Maybe he should have sprung for the more expensive cabin after all. 

He licks his lips. Yep, that’s definitely human blood. He stands up gingerly, and puts a hand to his stomach, considering. Not full enough to have eaten an entire person. And he’s always  _ ravenous _ as a wolf, so he probably wouldn’t have left their half eaten corpse alone unless someone was shooting at him, and there’s no bullets in him, so. He bit them and they got away, probably. And if they got away they probably didn’t die before the transformation took them, which would save them from bleeding out and dying. 

It wouldn’t save them from becoming a monster like him, however. He has to find them. 

Sighing, he looks for the blood trail to follow. He’d been supposed to be trapped safe and harmless inside of his basement. Not running around biting innocent humans. He’s supposed to be better. 

Well, what’s done is done and he’s going to make sure to handle this far better than he used to handle the people he turned, which was to just ignore them unless they made a nuisance of themselves, in which case he’d kill them. He’s going to do this the  _ proper _ way, this time. The traditional way. 

There. Blood. He crouches by the ground and gets a good sniff of it, and then follows the path. He follows it for hours. It’s a big forest, far from civilization. It’s why he’d chosen it. He can run a very far distance in his wolf form. 

That hadn’t been enough, though, apparently. At least he hadn’t killed anyone (no, he’d just ruined someone’s life). He’ll have to get a much better cabin. He’ll get the money for it somehow. 

He doesn’t find the trail’s end, but he thinks he finds where it started. The splash of blood is much bigger, and there’s signs of struggle nearby, broken twigs and torn up earth. Also, there’s a cabin a few feet away large and luxurious enough that it almost feels like it shouldn’t be called a cabin at all. A vacation home, perhaps. Locus bets that the walls in this place’s basement are far harder to tear through. 

There are multiple cars in the driveway, and the sound of people inside of the Mega Cabin, peacefully going about their business. They haven’t noticed their missing companion yet, haven’t seen the dark blood on the dark ground. 

He wonders what they’re all doing there, what their relationship to his victim is. Coworkers on some sort of seminar? Friends on vacation together? Family reunion? Whatever they are, this just got more complicated. He hasn’t just turned some lone hiker that won’t be missed for the rest of the weekend, they’ll be missed in a matter of  _ hours. _ He has to be fast if he wants to help them preserve their old life in any way. 

Locus follows the other end of the blood trail, where his victim had presumably run away from him. He wonders what had convinced him to leave them and an entire cabin full of easy meals alone. Whatever it was, he’s endlessly grateful for it. 

Back into the woods, among the trees. Soon, the two human footprints turn into three wolf prints. Three. He worriedly wonders if he ate one of his victim’s limbs. 

Around where the change starts, he finds a dropped orange bottle of pepper spray. Huh. That  _ would  _ be incredibly effective against his wolf self, and even his human form self. A werewolf’s senses are enhanced, sensitive. 

He follows the wolf prints. They’re stumbling and confused, looping. Their first transformation, disorienting and frightening even for the wolf self. Locus had left them alone for it. Guilt drums in his chest along with his heartbeat. 

He finds them, eventually. Him. He’d been too confused to move far, the full moon had been mostly over for the night, and apparently he only has three limbs. 

He’s still unconscious, lying with his limbs splayed on the ground. Hair short and dark red, limbs long and lanky, skin pale and freckled. His left arm ends in a stump a bit above the elbow. The transformation would have helped heal the injury, but he knows what stumps created by the jaws of a werewolf looks like, and this isn’t it, too neat of a cut. Surgery. He huffs out a relieved sigh through his nose. At least he’s  _ only _ taken this man’s humanity from him. Only that. 

He crouches down by him, and his hand moves inexorably towards the raised outline of a large animalistic bite mark on his shoulder. Gigantic, it covers most of his left shoulder on both sides, and some of his neck. It looks like he’s had the scar for years, but it hasn’t even been twenty four hours since he got it. 

He must have gone outside, alone to get some fresh air away from his companions. Locus must have lunged for him,  _ leaped _ at him, snarling for blood. He must have been terrified. Locus doesn’t even know this man’s name, and yet he still feels proud of him for managing to pepper spray and survive Locus despite his fear and confusion, how fast and chaotic the situation must have been. 

He hasn’t felt this way for any other people he’s turned. At most he’d feel a sort of ‘my problem to take care of’ feeling if they did make themselves to be a problem. And then he’d go and solve that problem. Violently and efficiently. 

He feels ‘my problem to take care of’ now too, as he looks down at this skinny man who’s frowning with stress even in his sleep, but he wants to take care of it in a different way. He wants to _ take care _ of him. 

Felix had taken care of him in the traditional way a biter was supposed to treat their victim, although in hindsight he thinks that he may have taken a few liberties, a little advantage. Some lies here and there, laying down groundwork and getting them into a routine that suited him. Locus isn’t going to do that. His first priority is going to be to help this man adjust to his new reality, to cope with it, until he can stand on his own two feet without Locus’ assistance. That’s all a biter owes their victim, really. To help them through the beginning, to understand what’s happened and happening. 

He traces his thumb over the man’s bite scar almost thoughtlessly, but stills when the man’s eyes abruptly opening. He’s pale and breathing just a bit too quickly. Bad dream. Of course. His waking life is a bad dream right now. 

His eyes are a nice solid green color that reminds of him of his army days before Felix, before full moons, before waking up with a stranger’s blood in his mouth was even a thing. 

“What?” the man croaks, blinking with confusion up at the trees. And then he looks at Locus, who’s still crouching by him, who still has a hand on his shoulder. His nice green eyes widen, the whites so apparent. 

Does he somehow  _ recognize _ Locus? Does his eyes remind him of the beast that tore into him last night--? 

His pale face goes a strong red, the most obvious blush Locus has ever seen with his own eyes. 

“Oh my god,” he whimpers. 

He isn’t quite sure of what’s going through his head, here. 

“Hello,” he says, in the hopes of getting them on less confusing tracks. 

“You’re  _ naked,” _ the man says. “Why are you naked?” 

Locus looks down at himself. Oh, right. Normal people aren’t as blase about public nudity as werewolves are, used as they are to ripping their clothes off every time they shift if they haven’t changed first. He’d forgotten, he’s just so used to it. It’s been many years since he was changed forever, since he stopped being Samuel Ortez. 

“Why am  _ I _ naked?” he asks, his voice cracking with panic. “Who are you? Why are we out here!? Oh god, did we-- in the  _ woods!?”  _

Locus stares at him as the man makes his best impression of swallowing his tongue, his blush spreading down his chest. 

“I bit you,” he explains. 

“Oh god,” the man groans, and covers his red face with his hand. “Oh god, how did this even happen…” 

Locus somehow gets the feeling that they aren’t on the same page. 

“What is the last thing you remember?” he prompts him. Maybe he can lead him more gently towards the realization than Felix had with him  _ (you’re my monster now), _ the way you wear your grimmest expression and apologize before you tell someone their grandmother has cancer. 

His covering hand retreats enough for him to peek out at him between his fingers, keeping his gaze above his shoulders with determined embarrassment. 

“I,” he says. He frowns up at the canopy above them, his eyes wandering away from his face and then glazing over with the look of someone trying to remember something hazy. “It’s the mandatory family reunion. Dad and uncle started fighting again so I snuck off to get some space for a bit, and…” 

Locus can tell that he’s recalled the attack when his expression goes disturbed, like reality has suddenly stopped being just mortifying and confusing and has turned… unsettling. 

“There was… a wolf,” he says slowly, like he almost doesn’t believe himself. “It-- it _ bit  _ me, I sprayed it, I got lost?” 

Confused by pain and fear and darkness, he must have wandered in the wrong direction, away from the cabin. Good. He would have slaughtered his own family if he hadn’t. 

_ “I  _ bit you,” he repeats. 

The man’s hand flies to the new scar on his shoulder as if he’s afraid that it’s still weeping blood. He twists his neck to get a look at it, and his mouth falls open with disbelief as he runs his fingers over the raised impression of Locus’ fangs, closed and healed. 

Locus hooks his hand around the back of the man’s neck and hauls him up into a sitting position, the man somehow finding it in himself to squeak at the manhandling despite his bewildered shock. In his new position his face is suddenly very close to Locus’. He stares at him with wide eyes, hand still on his scar. 

“My name is Locus,” he says, feeling like he’s sufficiently prepared the man for the fact that he’s about to be told something bad, “and I’ve turned you into a werewolf. I’m sorry.” 

“WHAT!?” 

Apparently there’s no such thing as sufficient preparation for being told that you’re now a lycanthrope. 

He blinks at him a little at the sudden exclamation, his sensitive ears protesting the shout. But it’s an understandable reaction. 

The man gets his hand on the ground like he’s about to push himself up, and then he looks down and visibly remembers that he’s naked, makes another one of those squeaking noises, and hugs his knees to his chest instead. Trapped by modesty. Locus will take it. 

The man looks at him with red cheeks and wide eyes, and an expression that says he isn’t sure he can believe Locus even with the scar and the memory as evidence. A naked stranger in the woods is not a trustworthy source, apparently. He understands. He remembers what Felix had had to do to convince him despite all evidence as well. He’ll be gentler about it, though. He’ll be nicer. 

Locus is going to get this right, for once. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says because he won’t be able to reassure him any longer in a moment. 

The man looks more spooked that Locus felt the need to say that than anything else. Whatever. It’s time to prove word with action. 

He shifts. 

Full moon shifts and regular shifts are two entirely different things. A full moon shift is unstoppable, uncontrollable, inevitable as an incoming tsunami. A complete surrender to the wolf, mind and body, a blackout that you have to do damage control for the next day. Regular shifting is almost second nature, like blinking. Almost pleasant, like it’s what his bones want for him. There was a time when Locus very rarely shifted out of his wolf form, when he wore the fur and instincts like armor, but he’s trying to embrace his human side more these days, to be more than just a monster. 

He knows that it most certainly doesn’t  _ look _ pleasant, though. He remembers the way it had seemed like something was trying to break its way out of Felix’s body the first time he shifted in front of him, skin bulging, flesh shifting, bones…  _ moving.  _

The blush has left the man’s face, replaced by frozen horror. 

Locus wags his tail reassuringly and doesn’t growl or bare his teeth at him the way Felix had. That part isn’t necessary. Even if he did want to establish his dominance, which he isn’t actually interested in, he knows what he looks like. Wolves are large. Werewolves are larger. And Locus has been informed that he is a  _ specimen. _ Locus and the man are both sitting, but the man still has to look up at him to gape with incredulity. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. He looks more than a little scared, which makes sense considering that this is the form that violently attacked him last night. He’s about to change back, but then the man puts his face into his knees and starts mumbling ‘oh god oh shit oh fuck what the  _ hell’  _ and such over and over again. His breathing is shallow and irregular in way that makes his mumbling sound breathless. He stares, stumped, not quite sure what to do. _ This  _ definitely never came up with him and Felix. It was mostly just snarling and biting. He wishes he had more experience with being a good person. Starting in your thirties is _ hard.  _

He leans down and in and nudges at him with his cold wet snout. The man flinches and looks up at him from over his knees, his eyes a little too shiny. Locus selfishly hopes the man doesn’t cry in front of him. 

Moving slowly, he nuzzles his forehead against the man’s face in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The man makes a sputtering noise and flails a little, but he doesn’t throw himself back and away. After a long moment of Locus not attacking him, the man tentatively puts his arms around Locus. Locus continues not to attack him. The man clutches at him more tightly. He has a feeling the man is a dog person, which is fortunate. 

“Simmons,” the man quietly mumbles into his fur. “My name is Simmons.” 

He takes a shuddering breath and stops hugging Locus, turning away to scrub quickly at his flushed face and then looking at anywhere and anything but him, like nothing just happened. Freak out apparently over and done with, Locus gives Simmons a quick lick to his face which the man squawks at, and then shifts back. 

“You should go back to your family before they start looking for you and find the blood,” he advises once he has a mouth he can make words with again. 

Simmons blanches. “Oh fuck,” he says. “My family! What the fuck am I going to do!?” 

And then he looks down at his naked body and Locus understands the despairing question. Right, he probably can’t just walk right back into the cabin wearing nothing but some pine needles and dirt. Human culture. Locus mostly remembers it. 

He squints at him thoughtfully. “Is there a window into your room?” he asks. 

“Yeah but it’s way too high up--”

“Let’s go then.” 

And then he stands up and Simmons flushes and whips his head away. Locus wonders why, but doesn’t ask. He just reaches a hand out to help him up. Simmons takes it and avoids eye contact. Locus leads the way back to the Mega Cabin. 

“I’ll help you with being a werewolf until you feel comfortable being on your own,” he begins as they walk. “I’ll help you adjust to your new instinct, learn your new abilities, get through your first full moon, and help satisfy your urges.” 

“That’s… nice of you.” Simmons isn’t much shorter than him, really, he notices as they walk side by side. Only a couple of inches. It’s much better than what he’s used to. He likes it. 

“It’s the bare minimum,” he says. “Werewolves are expected to help the people they bite acclimate to their new nature. Taking responsibility, taking care. It’s the least we can do.” 

There’s a long silence during which they just walk. Simmons doesn’t seem to like walking barefoot on the ground, takes long and awkward steps to avoid the muddier areas. 

“Hey,” Simmons says, like it’s just occurred to him. “What do you mean, satisfy my urges--?” 

“We’re here,” Locus interrupts, because he’d rather put that conversation off for as long as possible like the coward he is. He  _ will _ take responsibility. He’d just rather wait until he can’t avoid it any longer. It doesn’t seem like those urges have quite hit Simmons yet anyways, he’d definitely notice if they had. 

Simmons goes quiet as the Mega Cabin comes into view. 

“If my family sees me naked in the woods with a strange and also naked man,” he says grimly, “I’m going to  _ die.”  _

“Noted,” he says, and lets Simmons lead the way towards the side of the house his bedroom is in, the two of them sticking to the edge of the forest, using the trees as cover. It’s still early, there’s still time, not many of the humans stirring inside of the cabin, but Simmons still mostly uses Locus as cover and winces whenever they pass a window with its blinds open. 

“I told you it was too high up,” he says gloomily as he stops at one patch of the wall. Locus looks up at the window above them. Perhaps ten feet or so up from the ground? Doable. 

“Come on,” he says, taking hold of Simmons’ wrist and leading him towards the cabin. “Up.” 

And then he bends and picks Simmons up around the legs, hoisting him up in one smooth movement up onto his shoulder. Simmons yelps and then panickedly slaps his hand over his mouth, muffling himself. Locus doesn’t hear anyone rushing towards their position, and his hearing is good. 

“Can you reach it like this?” he asks. 

“I, I think so,” he stutters, looking extremely flustered. He reaches for the window, and he can indeed reach it if he stretches his arm out as far as it can go. Locus’ grip on Simmons is as steady as a rock. Locus hoists Simmons up another few inches, and he makes a strange muffled sound, his lips firmly clamped shut. He’s starting to think that Simmons might just be a noisy person in general. 

Simmons opens the window, and Locus helps push him up so he can get good enough leverage to climb in. He tumbles gracelessly into his room, and a moment later his head sticks back out of the window. 

“Thank you,” he hisses at a volume loud enough that he may as well have just spoken normally. “I’ll be back out as soon as I can.” 

“I’ll wait for you in the woods,” he responds, and then turns around and walks back into the trees before any of the humans spot him. He finds a comfortable spot where he can still see the the Mega Cabin, shifts, and curls up to wait. He has nowhere else he has to be right now. He makes sure not to have any contracts around the full moon. He has no current obligations but Simmons. 

He closes his eyes and waits. Falls asleep. Dreams. Being suddenly different, overcome by new instincts, new senses. A need that drowned out every protest and reservation in his brain. Satisfying that need at any cost.  _ What do you mean, satisfy my urges--? _

“Locus?” 

Locus wakes up, eyes snapping open. Sees Simmons. Remembers what he’s going to have to do. 

He’ll do it. It’s the traditional way, the right way. But he’ll do it better than Felix had. 

He stands up on his four paws, and Simmons makes a startled sound. He hadn’t seen him. Locus gives Simmons a more proper once over. He’s dressed now, in jeans, a maroon shirt, a light jacket, and some decent sneakers. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and he looks… upset. Upset and like he’s poorly trying to hide it. 

Locus shifts and Simmons averts his eyes for the duration, and he determinedly locks eyes with Locus and doesn’t look down at him afterwards, face red again. He knows public nudity is a taboo, but are all humans this bashful? Locus distinctly remembers locker rooms full of naked strangers that didn’t act this mortified. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, because there can be so many things that are wrong. Some transformations go bad, not everyone is suited to being a werewolf, wires get mixed and instincts get twisted and Locus is responsible for this one and he’s going to do right by him no matter--

“Family didn’t take well to me leaving early,” he says, grimacing faintly. “Not supposed to do that. But this is  _ really important,  _ right?” 

“It is,” he agrees. Locus needs to get Simmons away from humans pronto, especially family. His new instincts are going to kick in any moment now. “Follow me.” 

He heads off towards his own much more modest cabin at a quick clip. Time is of the essence. 

“Am I allergic to silver now?” Simmons asks, hurrying after him. 

“Yes.” 

“Are vampires real?” 

“Yes.” 

“Shit! Is there a war between werewolves and vampires?” 

“No.” 

“Are there monster hunters?” 

“No. The community takes down the problem cases on their own.” Unless the problems are too strong, like him. 

“Are there wizards?” 

“No.” 

“Aw. Mermaids?” 

“Some deep sea ones. They have translucent flesh and razor sharp teeth.” 

“Fuck, that’s so cool. Elves?” 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“... Did you bite me on purpose?” 

“No,” he answers immediately. No. “I didn’t. Full moons are… an issue. I didn’t trap myself sufficiently before the moon rose.” And then, lowly, sincerely, “I apologize.” 

Simmons doesn’t seem to know what to say in response to that, so they walk in silence for a bit. Locus doesn’t mind. He’s never been bothered by silence. 

“Is it going got hurt?” he asks eventually. 

“Only during the full moon,” he answers. 

A slightly anxious tone to this question: “Are you _ always _ naked?” 

“Only after I’ve shifted. I’ll put on some pants after we get to my cabin.” Even though it’ll be counterproductive. 

“Oh,” he says, sounding relieved and disappointed in equal measure. He clears his throat. “So that’s where we’re going.” 

And then they walk in some more silence, Simmons stumbling with the clumsiness of a man unfamiliar with nature. 

Locus can feel his eyes lingering on him more and more blatantly the longer they walk. It’s happening. 

Finally, they reach his cabin. A small, dingy, brown thing, and as they approach it Locus notes the brand new hole on the bottom corner of it that he’d presumably shoved himself through last night with disapproval. There’s blood on the edges. It’s a good thing his healing is enhanced during full moons. 

He unlocks the door and enters, Simmons following. He doesn’t look around curiously at the new environment. He stands there, swaying slightly, his eyes a little glazed and locked on Locus. If he looks for it, he can see the line of his erection hidden by his jeans. 

He has to explain. Now. 

“Simmons,” he says sharply to capture his attention. Simmons flinches and stiffens, his eyes darting up to Locus’ face guiltily, his face going a darker red than the faint flush of before. 

“I wasn’t--!” he squeaks. 

“I have to take care of you,” Locus interrupts. He frowns, trying to think of a way to explain that isn’t vulgar. “I have to satisfy your urges. It’s expected. It’s traditional.”

“... What urges?” Simmons croaks after a long moment of staring at him. 

“Every new werewolf has to adjust to their new instincts, their new… stamina. There’s a period that can last from a few weeks to a few months right after turning that…” He bites his bottom lip, thinking, and Simmons looks at his lips with rapt attention. “I’m supposed to take care of you.” 

“Locus,” Simmons rasps. “Are you saying that I’m going to be super horny for like a month now and you’re supposed to fuck me?” 

“Yes,” he says, relieved at the help. 

_ “Oh fuck,” _ he groans, agonized, still flushed. “I’ve never-- you’re a  _ guy--  _ but you’re so hot--!” And then he palms his crotch like he can’t help himself and whimpers with mortification and sensation. 

A wave of heat goes through him. It’s cultural, to be obligated to do this to someone you’ve bitten, but it’s also instinctual. Natural. His body  _ wants _ for him to do this, and it’s so hard to resist. He licks his lips and suddenly he’s taking the steps to bring himself into Simmons’ personal bubble. His face is red and his eyes are wide and his pupils are wide and he can’t tear his eyes off of Locus and he’s suddenly hit, fucking  _ slammed,  _ with the idea that Simmons is the sexiest, cutest man he’s ever laid eyes on. Goddamned hormones. Goddamned full moons. Goddamned everything. 

“I can leave if you want,” he almost whispers, and Simmons gasps like he slapped him.  _ “If you want.  _ You can take care of it on your own. Or I can help you.” 

_ “Help,” _ he says breathlessly, and Locus stops trying to hold back. 

He picks him up and slams him into a wall so that Simmons has no choice but to wrap his legs around his waist to stop from falling, to press their crotches against each other for every inch of leverage he can get, and Simmons squeezes his eyes shut and moans, head falling back, throat bared. Locus’ breath whooshes out of him at the sight. He can’t possibly know-- it’s instinct. Instincts, baring his throat to the one who bit him, the one who’s going to fuck him. 

He leans in and laps at the pale expanse, teeth digging in lightly, not breaching skin. He can feel the vibrations of Simmons’ moan on his tongue like this. 

He thrusts against him, not even thinking about it, and grumbles at the feeling of denim. He shifts  _ slightly, _ to the point that his teeth go sharper, that his nails turn into claws, something just vaguely more animalistic about the entirety of him. He drags his claws down Simmons’ front tearing his shirt apart easily. (He’ll have more in his bag, won’t he? Or he could wear one of Locus’ shirt. Something inside of him goes very pleased at the thought.) 

Simmons’ moans loud enough at that that Locus is grateful that they’re doing this in a secluded cabin in the woods. 

He focuses on getting rid of those jeans in any way possible. At least the part of them that’s in his  _ way.  _

“I can’t, I can’t believe,” tumbles out of Simmons’ mouth helplessly.  _ “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”  _

It must be strange, to go from having an uncomfortable family reunion to being ravaged by a strange naked man he met in the woods. Locus kisses him, soft and nice but firm because he can’t find it in himself to  _ word _ right now, to properly comfort him or whatever it is that he needs. 

_ What he needs,  _ the feral animalistic part of him growls,  _ is to get naked and _ submit. 

Locus isn’t even usually a top, for god’s sake.  _ Fucking  _ hormones. 

He finally manages to rip enough of Simmons’ pants and underwear away to be able to grind his bare dick against Simmons’ bare dick. He does so, vigorously and mercilessly, Simmons squirming and thrusting desperately against him, panting heavily. His flush goes all the way down. 

_ Bite him, _ his instincts whisper. The worst possible damage is already done and so Locus gives in, sucking hickeys onto his throat and collarbone and shoulders, and everything feels so natural and right and good. 

Simmons comes with a shout, clinging onto Locus. Normally he’d stop at this, take care of the rest on his own, but anything that isn’t  _ this _ is foggy and unimportant right now, and so he keeps thrusting until he comes onto Simmons.  _ Yes, _ his instincts say.  _ That’s right, cover him with your-- _

“Sorry,” he says, breathless with his recent orgasm. 

“Why,” Simmons says, still looking and sounding so far gone. Wrecked. It makes his spent dick twitch at the sight. “Why do I still want to, still  _ need _ to--” 

His cock’s already stiffening back up and it’s barely been a minute since he came. 

“New werewolf,” he murmurs, kissing Simmons apologetically. “New stamina. It’ll be a few rounds more.” 

Simmons moans, despairing and wanting, and Locus takes pity on him (he gives into his desires), and he lets him down from where he’s been pinned against the wall and then almost shove him onto the floor onto his all fours. 

“Take off your pants,” he says, heart thundering, blood rushing, libido almost as unrestrained as it had been all of those years ago when he’d first been turned. He leaves for his kitchen cupboard only a few feet away, and frantically rummages around in it for something that’ll substitute for proper lube, knocking bottles over in his search. He finds it, a bottle of good cooking oil, and he turns around with it in hand to see Simmons kicking the remains of his pants off, completely naked now, his clothes lying in tatters around him. 

Simmons looks up at him, lying on the floor, flushed and panting and covered in come and already desperate for more, and Locus almost breaks the neck of the bottle as he unscrews the cap. 

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, and that’s the last proper sentence he says for hours. 

  
  


Locus is a powerful werewolf. He can take on even a newly turned werewolf’s stamina, although he can’t remember the last time he felt this exhausted. They’ve used every single position he knows at least once, and in each variation. At some point, they’d managed to get into Locus’ tiny bed, and now they’re wedged together on it, tangled together, partially lying on top of each other. Simmons is sleeping. It’s been an intense day for him. They’re sweaty and dirty and they should go and find a river to wash themselves off in, but he just doesn’t have it in himself to make them do that right now. He just lies there and listen to Simmons breathe, every single part of himself satisfied. 

Something inside of him, something raw and vulnerable, feels terribly good at having someone to curl up around and inhale deeply. Something inside of him whispers  _ pack. _

This is just until Simmons gets his feet underneath him, just until he adjusts. 

Simmons clings to him like he never wants to let go.


End file.
